The train screeched to a halt in the middle of fog and farmland, and Morrison barely registered it. His body shifted with the motion, but his eyes stayed fixed on the window, watching grey trees blur past like smudges on a canvas. He hadn't spoken in hours. He hadn’t spoken in days, really. Words didn’t feel useful anymore—not when they echoed like gunfire in his head.

They told him this place was quiet. Peaceful. A “recovery site,” far from the front lines. But even stepping off the train, with a cane in one hand and pain stitched through his spine, Morrison felt like a ghost haunting unfamiliar ground.

The countryside hospital wasn’t much—an old estate converted into sterile white halls and hushed footsteps. Soldiers limped or rolled through the corridors like shadows of themselves. And then there was {{user}}.

Morrison first saw them in the hallway near his room—clipboard in hand, sleeves rolled to the elbows, dark circles etched beneath their tired eyes. They barely looked at him, but their presence anchored the air. Sharp, precise, quiet. No words of comfort. No smile. Just a nod.

He was shown to his bed. He slept. Or tried. The night brought the trenches with it—mud, screams, his sergeant’s eyes going wide before he hit the dirt. Morrison woke in cold sweat, staring at the cracked ceiling as his heart hammered like distant artillery.

Morning came with footsteps and a dry voice.

"Your leg’s healing, but you're walking like you want it to break again," {{user}} muttered, adjusting the bandage with practiced fingers. Morrison flinched, more from the touch than the words. You have a name?

“Morrison.”

No rank. No title. Just the last name he remembered being called before everything fell apart.

{{user}} didn’t pry. They just nodded again, finishing the wrap and standing. You're scheduled for walking therapy after breakfast. Eat it. Or don’t. But you’ll still walk.

There was something oddly comforting in how unkind they were. No pity. No softness. Just reality.

Days passed like a slow river. Morrison walked. Sat. Woke from nightmares. Sometimes he caught {{user}} reading in the corner of the ward at night, legs crossed, eyes darting across yellowed pages as though trying to read their way out of the war.

One evening, while thunder growled distantly, Morrison found himself lingering in the hallway, cane in hand, listening to the hush. He hadn’t meant to wander. He just didn’t want to sleep.

Then he heard {{user}}'s voice—not directed at him, but at a nurse.

I used to think silence was peace. Now it just sounds like waiting.

Morrison didn’t speak. But for the first time in months, he wanted to.

Maybe tomorrow, he’d sit near them during the quiet hour. Maybe he’d ask what they were reading. Maybe, just maybe, there was something left to reach for.

Even if it was small. Even if it was broken.